by Dan Zangari
“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Raedina said, smiling broadly. Iltar knew that smile was forced. He used to smile exactly so while hunting his parents’ murderers. Kindness was a suitable façade to cover furtive actions. This lesson he had learned years ago, and it seemed Raedina had learned it as well.
I’ll have to watch her, Iltar thought, taking his seat beside Alanya. There’s something wrong with these Mindolarnians.
Elsia engaged Raedina in small talk while a few servants entered the dining hall, carrying large pitchers. The servants approached the boys first, asking which of the beverages they preferred. Iltar was careful to listen to the choices. He didn’t want any of his students intoxicated. The choices were actually quite tame—water, furnapel juice, milk, and a frothy drink called tamir. Iltar hadn’t heard of the last one and neither had the boys.
One of the servants explained that tamir was a drink produced by blending a variety of spices with syrup made from the root of a plant called tamiralis. He didn’t explain too much of the procedure, but the result was a beer-like drink without alcoholic properties.
Several of the acolytes chose that drink. Soon, each of their glasses was filled with tamir—a dark-blue liquid that foamed with a sky-blue head.
“And what shall you have, sir?” a servant asked Iltar.
“I’ll take that tamir,” Iltar said, gesturing to the half-empty pitcher.
“And I’ll have the same,” Alanya said, leaning close to Iltar and wrapping her arm around his. Alanya beamed exuberantly. He had never seen her so happy.
“I love this,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “And you look good.” Her words carried a tone of sensuality. Alanya’s smile was enough to distract Iltar. For a moment, he forgot about Raedina’s restrained hostility and the supposed nefarious nature of the Mindolarnians.
But then, they entered.
“Welcome, brother,” Raedina said, moving to her seat at the head of the table.
Iltar turned to see the tall man, Malvonican, striding arrogantly into the room. They had met only once—in Raedina’s office at the Hilinard—but Iltar could tell he was a sly man. Malvonican was wearing the same suit he’d worn when Iltar first met the prince.
“I do hope there’s enough food prepared for me,” Malvonican said smugly. He glanced to the acolytes and then took the seat beside little Bilda. The prince looked at the boy like a lion eyeing his prey. “If not, I might just gobble you up!”
Bilda looked at the prince with wide eyes, then flashed a wary glance to Iltar.
“I think he’s kidding, Bilda,” Iltar said reassuringly, though he wasn’t sure if Malvonican was jesting. “But if he tries to take a bite just slap his face with an acidic orb.”
Elsia put her hand to her mouth, and Alanya gasped, horrified.
“Iltar!” Alanya chided, tugging at his arm.
Iltar didn’t look at her. He was focused on Malvonican’s aqua-green irises. A growing tension built between them, but then Malvonican burst into laughter.
“I don’t think you’d taste good,” the prince said sardonically.
Bilda chuckled nervously, and some of the other acolytes snickered.
As the tension eased, Alanya tugged on Iltar’s arm. “You need to mind yourself. It’s not polite to be disrespectful.”
Iltar just glanced at her. She really doesn’t know me, he thought.
Soon, more footsteps approached the dining hall, then two men strode toward the table. They looked like brothers, but one had wavy blond hair and the other neatly cropped brown. The blond-haired man was dressed in a regal garb identical to Malvonican’s attire. The other wore a crimson robe adorned with black symbols. Both had violet eyes and looked to be in their mid-forties.
They look like Kaescis, Iltar thought, remembering the prince who had accompanied Krindal. I wonder if they’re brothers…
“These are princes Negaris and Laedar,” Raedina said. “My cousins.”
“Ilnea said you were serving lunch,” said the blond newcomer.
“Do you want to help plan the ball, Laedar?” Raedina asked tersely, her eyes narrowed at her blonde cousin.
Both newcomers looked at each other for a moment, then Negaris, the robed man, shrugged.
“I guess we do,” Laedar said, taking a seat.
Raedina shook her head, gesturing to the two newcomers.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Laedar said, nodding to Iltar and the others.
Negaris’s violet eyes fixed on Iltar.” Am I right in assuming you are a necromancer?”
Iltar raised an eyebrow at Prince Negaris. How does he know who I am? That question didn’t bode well to Iltar. Why was Mindolarnian Royalty taking an interest in him?
“He is,” Alanya answered for him. “Iltar is a council member of the Soroth Necrotic Order.”
“Impressive,” Negaris said, sitting one seat away from Laedar.
“So, you’re friends with Grandmaster Alacor?” Laedar asked.
“Not really,” Iltar answered.
Alanya sighed, and Iltar turned toward her. She looked at him with a gaze that said, “Is that all you can say?”
Iltar figured he should say something more… but he couldn’t think of anything pleasant to say about Alacor. He despised the man. “Alacor and I have known each other for a long time,” he said. “Our masters were brothers, and we often learned together.”
“Then you two should be like brothers,” Laedar said, gesturing toward Iltar.
“We have our differences,” Iltar replied flatly.
Iltar felt a tap against his boot, then Alanya whispered to him. “Please, watch your tone.”
For magic’s sake, woman… Iltar groaned inwardly, briefly glancing to Alanya.
“Grandmaster Alacor is a good man,” Negaris said. “I had the pleasure of his company at the last Feast of Sorrows.”
Negaris’s words were worthy of drawing a raised brow. Alacor here in Mindolarn—oh, why didn’t I see it before! Iltar chided himself. While eavesdropping on Alacor, Iltar had heard him mention the Hilinard. Alacor had never said where he was going on sabbatical the last decade. Now it all made sense. He had been coming to Mindolarn. But why would Alacor attend the Feast of Sorrows? He wasn’t religious.
Another pair of footsteps echoed into the dining hall. A third prince—or so Iltar assumed—sauntered around the table. He was quite plump, but looked like the others, with wavy blond hair and violet eyes.
“I was told there was food?” the plump prince said lightheartedly.
The other princes didn’t seem pleased with the newcomer. Laedar tensed and sat back in his chair while Negaris regarded the plump prince coldly.
“And who invited you, Jeridi?” Malvonican said hostilely.
Jeridi—the plump prince—took a seat across from the others, right beside Agen.
“I could say the same for you,” Jeridi said, leaning one arm against the tabletop.
The three other princes looked at Jeridi fiercely. There was obviously an unspoken feud between them.
Raedina cleared her throat, but the princes remained in their deadlocked stare. “And may I introduce my eldest cousin, Prince Jeridi Midivar, the first in line to the Mindolarn throne.”
“So you’re the next emperor?” Bilda blurted, leaning against the table with wide eyes. “I’ve never met an emperor before.” Alanya sighed with exasperation.
“Yes, lad,” Jeridi said. “As long as none of them”—he pointed to his brothers and Malvonican—“don’t kill me first.”
“Would they really do that?” Tigan chimed from beside Agen.
“There have been veiled threats…” Jeridi said, turning to the young acolyte. “Being a prince can be a treacherous thing and a Mindolarnian prince even more so!” He grinned slyly, then chuckled softly. “They don’t like me because I talk about peace—a lot.”
There was a momentary stare-down between the princes; then several women entered the dining hall and took seats around the table, greeti
ng Raedina from a distance. More servants entered, offering drinks to the Royals. Light chatter filled the room. Then savory aromas filled the air as the servants rolled covered carts along the sides of the dining hall.
A few more people entered, taking their seats near the princes. There were twenty others besides Iltar and his party—including the four princes. Most of the others were women, all dressed in fanciful clothing. They were probably a committee Raedina had gathered to prepare for the ball.
Soon, servants were milling around the table, proffering the various foods that were available for lunch. The servants started with the Royals and worked their way around the table to Iltar and the other palace guests.
Iltar gave his order to a servant and sat back in his chair. There was still plenty of chatter in the room, but several of his acolytes were silent. The younger ones—Bilda and Tigan—were talking with Prince Jeridi. The plump prince seemed content to hold court with the two young boys. Jeridi’s inner child showed as he talked. He was definitely not like the others.
Once everyone had their plates and full glasses, Raedina tapped an empty wine glass, drawing everyone’s attention. The room was so quiet one could hear a pin drop.
“Thank you all for coming,” Raedina said. “All those invited and not invited,” she glanced to the princes. “You will please bow your heads.” Malvonican grinned, then bowed his head. He was followed by the other princes, and soon the Royals were all reverent. Raedina looked to Iltar, and those who had accompanied him.
The boys complied immediately.
“Oh, Aunok’sha—our Divine Father,” Raedina prayed, “we come together as thy children, praising thy name and awaiting thy glorious return.” The princess continued her prayer, laced with religious rhetoric. She droned on for a while, and then finished her prayer with, “May the Crimson Eye remain hidden for all time.”
Iltar abruptly opened his eyes, awkwardly glancing to the princess—he fought the urge to turn toward Raedina, as Alanya would obviously get upset. It was the first time Iltar had heard the phrase uttered in this world. Yes, he had read it plenty of times, but he had not heard anyone speak it.
The others in the room then chanted in unison, “May the Crimson Eye remain hidden for all time.”
Only my faithful speak this vow, Iltar recalled those booming words from that dream months ago.
Raedina continued speaking after the prayer, relating the purpose of the gathering—they were to discuss the particulars of the ball held in honor of their advancements in tevisral construction.
Malvonican cheered, drawing accolades from the other Mindolarnians—except for Jeridi.
Princess Raedina rolled her eyes at her brother. She continued speaking about the impending ball, turning her monologue into a discussion. The women mostly talked, but the princes gave their input now and again. Iltar, however, couldn’t focus on the conversation. He was too wrapped up in his assumptions about that phrase. Alanya caught him staring across the room at nothing, and she nudged him. Did she think he was bored?
After several hours of discussion, they finalized the details. Tasks were set, and a proclamation was drafted. Of course, they invited only the higher echelon of the city.
“You’ll be joining us, won’t you?” Raedina asked Iltar. “As Alanya’s guest?” She pursed her lips in anticipation of Iltar’s answer.
All eyes were on Iltar. Three of the princes—Malvonican, Laedar, and Negaris—stared at him sternly, seeming to await his answer more eagerly than Alanya. The only one not interested in his reply was Prince Jeridi.
“Of course,” Iltar replied. “Why wouldn’t I come?”
The Royals relaxed at his answer. What is wrong with them? Iltar wondered. He glanced at each of them briefly, then turned toward Elsia. Iltar looked past her, contemplating the Royals’ strange behavior. Why were they taking an interest in him? Did they adhere to Soron Thahan’s prophecies? If so, did they—like Reflection—believe he was something of a divine harbinger?
Chatter filled the room, but it was nothing of importance. Most everyone began to disperse, except Prince Jeridi.
“How much of the palace have you seen?” Jeridi asked the acolytes.
“Oh, not much, sir,” Bilda said, then stammered, “I mean—uh—Your Grace? Or is it Your Imperialness?”
Prince Jeridi grinned. “You can call me Jeridi. I get tired of hearing Your Imperial Highness.” He turned to Iltar and Alanya. “Would you all like a tour of the palace? Schedule permitting, of course.”
Each of the acolytes’ faces beamed with excitement.
“Please, Master Iltar!” Bilda pleaded. “Please!”
“Bilda, calm yourself!” Alanya reprimanded the boy. “Don’t forget your etiquette.”
“Sorry,” Bilda looked down at the table, embarrassed.
“The boy is fine,” Jeridi said. “After all, he’s not a Royal and isn’t required to adhere to our standards of stuffiness.” The acolytes chuckled at that. Even Iltar thought it was amusing.
“Come with me,” Jeridi said. “I’ll give you a tour of the palace.”
* * * * *
The guise of a priest didn’t suit Lirathay’lu. So, he turned to gardening instead. Playing in the dirt was better than standing around stiffly or sitting primly. Mindolarnians had many odd observances. He had spent a little over a week as Lira the priest before he feigned an urgent need to embark on that pilgrimage he had mentioned to High Oracle Regant.
Unfortunately, Regant had taken a liking to Lirathay’lu and wanted him to stay and become a member of the Royal Devotary. That only made the need to leave more pressing.
Lirathay’lu wiped the sweat off his brow, relishing the ache of sore muscles. It had been years since he was able to enjoy an honest day’s work.
“Oh, Sakal,” a woman said from behind him. “Your lunch is ready.”
“I’ll be right there,” Lirathay’lu said, putting down the pruning shears. Since joining the ranks of the palace servants, Lirathay’lu had been assigned to care for the Lower Gardens. He would have to make a change to that, as hardly any of the Mindolarnian Royalty ever walked these parts.
“Sure is hot today,” he said, wiping his forehead again. “I might need a break.”
“Aren’t you used to this?” the woman asked. “You’ve been a gardener for a decade.”
Lirathay’lu smirked and then winked at the woman. In all honesty, he wasn’t used to being outside. All those years playing the part of a crippled herbalist had made him soft. He could literally count on one hand the number of times he had stepped out of his shop in the last year. After all, supplies were always delivered to him. Then, in the last few years a kind child started dropping off food. This wasn’t because he was incapable—far from it. No, Lirathay’lu had to keep in line with his ruse. Denying help as a cripple would have aroused suspicion. And he couldn’t have that.
“Well, some days it catches up,” Lirathay’lu said. “No amount of experience will ever make you immune to the sun.”
“Oh my,” she rushed beside him, clapping her hand on his forehead. “Do you feel heatstroke? Are you going to faint?”
He could play off that… “You mean, there aren’t ripples in the grass?”
“By the Crimson Eye, Sakal,” she swore, wrapping her arm around him.
That’s not something you should be cursing, he thought, then feigned a wobble.
“You are going to rest,” she said. “Are you sure you’ve been doing this for a decade?”
Investigation and infiltration? he thought. Why yes, and even more than that. How many decades would that be? He wobbled again as he counted the years. That would be roughly five hundred and—
Lirathay’lu’s eyes widened. The man, Iltar, descended the steps of the Middle Gardens with one of the princes. Those women were with him as well, the ones that had visited Lirathay’lu’s shop—rather Yenig Mawer’s shop. They were all dressed in formal attire… and boys trailed behind them.
What are the
y doing here? he wondered, feigning another wobble. Lirathay’lu grabbed the woman’s hand and took a deep breath. And what are they doing with a qui’sha?
“You really don’t look well,” she said. “You’re looking pale.”
Lirathay’lu ignored her, his eyes fixed on Iltar. The necromancer, however, was focused ahead of the women, looking lost in thought.
“I need a moment,” he said, taking another deep breath.
“Maybe you should sit,” she said, guiding him to a bench. “I’ll fetch you some water.” She set Lirathay’lu down and hurried past Iltar and his companions.
Lirathay’lu, however, stared at the necromancer. He watched as Iltar descended the stairs to the palace’s courtyard. Iltar hadn’t even noticed him, although he wouldn’t have recognized Lirathay’lu. The necromancer might have recognized Lira the priest, but Sakal wore a different face.
First you try to access the realm of a mad god and now you’re carousing with qui’sha… Lirathay’lu mused. Whatever you’re seeking can only lead to folly, son of Adrin.
It wasn’t long before the woman returned with two goblets of water. “Drink this,” she said, handing Lirathay’lu a goblet. She then splashed the other on his face.
“What was that for?” he demanded harshly.
“You are delirious,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s get you inside. You’ll need plenty of rest. I just received word that the Royals are planning a last-minute event in three days, and they want the gardens around the palace altered. We will have to bring in new shrubbery and flowers. I’m just glad they don’t want to change the trees.”
* * * * *
It was near evening when Jeridi finally joined Raedina and the other princes in one of the palace’s upper rooms. Unfortunately, he had been dragged into this plot concocted by his cousins. Jeridi found the whole thing absurd.
“What took you so long?” Malvonican demanded harshly. “Perhaps you would have gotten here sooner if you didn’t have that much pudge on your gut.”
Negaris laughed and smirked. He always enjoyed teasing Jeridi. For the most part, Jeridi tolerated it. But today it was growing irksome.